The House on Linden Street
by TheLionandtheUnicorn
Summary: Inspired by The Winter soldier and The Curious Savage. Starring Bucky Barnes as Himself (though he doesn't remember that bit.) Updated every Friday.
1. Chapter 1

Lift.

Drop.

Count.

The metallic sounds filled his ears, chasing away complete thoughts. Thoughts he wished he didn't have. Thoughts he wasn't sure were his.

Lift.

Drop.

Count.

And the red-hued memories. Or maybe they were dreams. Or memories of dreams. But the image of the twisting gears drove them out. For a while.

Lift.

Drop.

Count.

The screams. He didn't know if they belonged to him or someone else. He liked to think they were his. But there were too many to come from one man. And only one sounded like his voice.

Lift.

Drop.

Count.

The shift changed. New men came in. Others left. He stayed. Where else would he go?

Lift.

Drop.

"Hey."

The pattern ended. The voice was deep and accented. Russian.

"I find this thing in the guardhouse this day when I come to work. They say it is your thing. What is your thing doing in the guardhouse, I wonder?"

It was hard to hear over the monstrous machine. It was hard not to flinch away, too. It always was.

He reached out a gloved hand for the black backpack. He was almost surprised when he was allowed to take it.

"Sorry. I must have left it." He finally dared look up.

The burly man raised a wild eyebrow. "Left it when, I wonder."

A short shrug. What could he say?

Count.

Lift.

Drop.

* * *

><p>The clock said it was 9:00. His brain translated it as 2100 hours. It felt later. It looked later.<p>

The last man had left an hour ago. It had taken that long to get back in. The lock had been changed. He appreciated the challenge. It took his mind off...everything.

But now it was dark. And silent. And he remembered. And it hurt. Hurt was better than oblivion. But he couldn't take it much longer.

He pack zippers dug into his neck uncomfortably. He wished the hours would pass. The night brought too little distraction from his own darkness. A darkness he couldn't shake off. He wished his confusion was something solid.

Something he could fight. Something he could kill.

A car door slammed in the parking lot.

Footsteps crunched through the gravel.

A grumbled sentence, something about the cold.

He froze. A flashlight shone through the window into his eyes. Sitting up, he blocked the glare with his uncovered arm, the light to flashing and reflecting. A short word, probably a curse, and then the light moved away. Scuffled sounds came from the door. He tensed, and clutched at the loaded gun that had lain on the floor next to him.

The grumbled words stopped.

The footsteps crunched away.

The car door slammed.

It took a moment to remember how to breath. Someone knew he was there.

He stood up stiffly, muscles aching from the cement floor.

He had to leave. Had to run again. Run, and hope no one followed. He slung the black bag over his shoulders. Opened the door. He hesitated, looking at the empty cement space that was the only thing that 'home' even remotely resembled for him.

_Don't._

It would just hurt to think about it. About how something that looked like a cell might be the only place on earth he had to go. The only place willing to take him in. It had been kinder than most people. And now he was leaving. He felt ungrateful.

_Don't._

That was the rule.

He closed the door. Locked it. Walked away.

* * *

><p>Lift.<p>

Drop.

Count.

He hadn't slept last night. It was too cold. As a result his mind was wandering. A listless, disinterested wandering.

Lift.

Drop.

Count.

The radio was playing today. It was hard to hear, but it was there. The music sounded strange. Almost like the machinery itself.

Lift.

Drop.

Count.

"Hey."

He stiffened.

"Did you get the note?"

Russian accent. It was the man from yesterday.

"Note?"

"I left it on to the door last night. To the guardhouse. And don't tell to me you weren't there. I know."

He couldn't met the man's eyes. Just turned and pulled another aluminum stack off the conveyer belt.

Lift.

The short man watched him, eyes hooded, arms folded across his chest. The aluminum made a sharp metallic noise as he threw it into the crate.

Drop.

The Russian was still behind him. Watching. He tried to ignore the feeling of eyes on his back. He reached for the pack of utility zip ties. His hand met air. And the man suddenly stood beside him, fishing out a fistful of the black plastic.

"Here."

The older man offered him the ties. He took them silently, nodding a thanks.

Together they bound the metallic rods into piles of five.

Count.

"Well. I didn't take all that time to write a note no one was going to read. The morning shift ends in two minutes. Go read it. It should still be there. Lazy Tim is working today."

He nodded again, not sure how to respond to the attention. With his backpack over his shoulders, he turned to leave.

"One last thing."

He glanced back.

"What's your name?"

His eyebrows met in thought, his tired eyes uncertain. He wasn't sure. But maybe…

"James. My name is James."

* * *

><p>As he had been told, a paper was taped to the door. He pulled it, white painting flaking away from the wood.<p>

Blocky letters sprawled across the folded front.

_For the man with the black backpack:_

He opened the page, revealing the rest of the letter.

_You can't sleep here forever. Trust me, I tried. _

_Here's somewhere that you can stay instead._

_30 Linden Street._

_Tell them Petrova sent you._

Linden Street.

That wasn't too far. He could walk there now.

But that didn't matter.

He wasn't going. Couldn't go. How could you trust someone you just met?

How could you trust anyone ever?

* * *

><p>He woke up with a jolt, and fell from the metal bench to the cold sidewalk, catching himself in plank position, his eyes inches away from the cold ground. He was covered in snowflakes. His breath formed white and misty in the cold air.<p>

He had been dreaming. Or remembering.

He didn't know.

He sat against the metal bench and ruffled his dark hair, clearing the tiny white specks away.

He drew his knees up to his chest, and let his head hang down, hands behind his neck.

There was no point. There was nothing to be done. He couldn't stop the screams, or the pain, or the memories.

He couldn't do this anymore.

Not on his own.

He lifted his head, staring at the snowflakes slipping through the sky. For a moment he pretended that he was the one moving. Rising through the cold.

A snowflake landed in his eye, and the flying was over.

He had to get inside.

He pulled his bag from under the bench onto his back.

It was time to move again.

* * *

><p>The red stone building stood out in the snow, the wrought iron railing dusted with a fine powder.<p>

It looked warm. And welcoming.

He didn't trust it.

He walked up the steps slowly, a million reasons to run in his mind.

He was too tired to give them serious thought. Too tired to give anything serious thought.

He knocked.

Or tried to. The door flung open before he had a chance .

A younger woman, maybe in her mid-twenties, stood in the hall. A bandana was twisted around her short black hair.

"Oh, my goodness. Perfect sense of timing. I need someone to taste this. It's Russian, and, well, I'm not, so I'm not sure what it needs. It tastes _good_, but I don't know, not Russian-y enough. Come try it!"

She opened the door.

He hesitated.

She opened it wider.

"I'm Beckie, by the way. Come on in."

He took a deep breath to not panic. The air smelled good. Wonderful, in fact. Better than anything he'd known for a while.

It could be poisoned.

But it would probably also be delicious.

He went in.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a long time since he had eaten so much.

Usually it was painful to even force down a few bites. When he even remembered it was important.

As if somehow he had forgotten how to eat.

But something about the warm light in the kitchen felt comforting.

Calming.

She had served something that was eaten with a spoon.

A soup. Or maybe a stew. He couldn't tell.

And was too tired to care.

Too tired to fight the warmth and the food and the kindness.

That would come later.

For now he just sat in silence as the dark hard woman chatted unceasingly while she moved around the kitchen.

Most of the time he couldn't tell what she was saying. But what he did hear seemed unconnected and confusing.

Something about traffic.

About doctors.

And tulip bulbs.

A thousand other things he couldn't keep track of.

After he finished half the bowl he couldn't take any more.

He pulled his legs up to the chair and wrapped his arms around his knees.

Careful to keep his sleeves covering the top of his gloves.

She stood over him, talking about something.

He couldn't really hear.

Couldn't really understand.

But then she was quite.

She had seen how much was still in his bowl.

He was paying attention now.

"Do you want anymore?"

He stayed still, not sure how to tell her how grateful he was.

How much he liked it.

How it was too hard to swallow anything else.

But she didn't ask again, and she only shrugged and cleared his place with the efficiency of practice.

He felt guilty, now.

He just...didn't remember.

How did you act around people?

It was a tough question.

One that he felt was not going to be answered soon.

What he did not realize is that the question he had asked himself was a question that had been asked all over the world since the beginning of time, and even now no one really had a good answer.

The front door opened.

The girl called out, and a deeper voice answered.

Someone else to deal with.

A tall man came in. He was tired.

James could tell by his eyes.

The eyes that greeted him in the mirror always looked that way.

Tired.

And sad, too.

Though sad for what, James could not tell.

"Hey, Becki."

"Hi, Jace! How's work?"

She set a bowl of the warm soup down, and the blond man sat in front of it.

"Okay, actually. I'm glad to be home, though."

He looked across the table and nodded a greeting.

"Hey."

James didn't know how to react.

So he just stayed still.

To his surprise neither of them seemed at all put off by this behavior.

"Is this the new tenant, then?"

"I honestly have no idea. I just needed someone to taste test this for me, and he was right outside when I opened the door."

She threw a quick glance at him.

"So, I guess it's up to you. Do you know if you're planning on staying around?"

He looked down and shrugged.

He had been hoping that someone would tell him if he was going to stay or not.

It was easier that way.

He did like this place, though.

It seemed safer than anywhere he could remember.

But safer was relative.

Across the table the man unfolded a newspaper.

It seemed to James that he used to spend a great deal of time with a newspaper in hand.

Which was odd, because he couldn't ever remember buying one.

Or stealing one.

He pulled himself back into the moment. There was noise from the front steps again.

Someone singing, it sounded like.

The newspaper was set down.

"There's Ava. I was wondering where she'd gone to."

"Oh, I think she was helping Tes with something or the other. Or Tes was helping her. Can't remember. I was just gone today, and she didn't want to be here alone."

The man stood up and went into the hall.

The door opened.

" You give yourself away with all that singing. I could hear you two blocks down."

A blond haired woman came in from the entryway.

She was almost a full three feet shorter than the man James' assumed was her husband.

"I only do it because I know how scared you get when I burst in without any warning. So blame yourself for the racket."

He kissed her forehead, at the same time collecting the bags from her arms.

"What's this for?"

"I bought some groceries. I know Tes doesn't like it, but for heaven's sake, we eat way more than she does. That girl eats like a sparrow."

"No, she eats like a distracted scientist, which is far less than any bird eats."

"I suppose that's true. Brilliant people are an absolute pain to live with."

Becki handed the woman a bowl.

"Aren't we all?"

"I guess so! This smells great. I was hoping there'd be something warm to eat on the way back."

James felt the need to leave. There were far too many people in the kitchen. He couldn't take all that life in so small a space. At the same time he was extremely reluctant to draw any attention to himself.

Becki seemed to notice his discomfort.

She crouched down by his chair.

He avoided making eye contact.

"If you like I can show you the empty room. That way you can get a feel for things around here."

The blond woman from her meal.

"Oh, is this our new border? Jace, you owe me five dollars. I told you she'd get someone within the week!"

"Betting is a dirty habit, Ava, and I have absolutely no intention of supporting it."

"Copping out is a dirty habit, too,and I have absolutely do intention of supporting that. So pay up"

James was grateful to follow the girl up the stairs where it was quieter.

He needed a little quiet now.

She opened the door at the end of the hall.

The space was small, but comfortable. A bed was in one corner, an armchair at its foot. A large mirror took up almost an entire wall. A small table with a lamp on it was by the bed.

"So, feel free to make yourself comfortable. Tesla will be around sometime soon, and we can sort things out then. I'm guessing she'll come back pretty late, though, so you can get some sleep if you want."

Becki turned to go.

"I…"

She looked back over her shoulder, one hand on the door frame.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

She smiled and her whole face crinkled up. A genuine smile.

"No problem! If you need anything just let me know!"

It was the first real smile he had seen in months.

He dropped his backpack on the floor.

Closed the door.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, taking in the small details of the room.

The carpet was thick.

The blankets smelled clean.

The bedside table had a lamp on top and an unopened pack of peppermint gum in the drawer.

He didn't know why he was here.

He knew he would probably just ending up hurting people.

And then running from the damage he cause.

But that was the only pattern he knew.

The only one that seemed to exist.

So he lay down in the bed, fully dressed, lights on, and slept.


	3. Chapter 3

He dreamed of fire.

He watched as flame danced through the remains of a building. Ashes fluttered around him like wistful birds, grey and uncertain.

Focus.

It was not important to the mission.

He reached the end of the burning shop.

Empty.

The target was not there.

But he knew where he would be now.

They had told him where to look.

Just like they told him everything he knew.

A taxi slowed in the alley, the driver staring out the window with his jaw slack at the rubble of the building.

He moved to the car and yanked the cabbie out of the window easily.

An strangled shout from the driver.

He ignored it.

It was not important to the mission.

He pulled quickly out of the alley.

A left turn.

A traffic signal.

A few miles south.

There.

On the right.

A small shop.

It claimed to sell antiques.

But they had told him otherwise.

He left the cab running.

It was not important to the mission.

He entered the building.

The front of shop was empty.

Cobwebs lingered in the corners of the undusted shelves.

There.

A door behind the counter.

It lead to a small storage space.

Smudged handprints in the dust of the shelves.

He reached out, and pulled it away from the wall.

A large room was revealed.

Old machinery, rusted and broken, lay scattered around the lower level.

Movement.

Behind a sort of counter covered in electronic switches and buttons.

The target.

He was young.

He was cringing, knowing he had been found.

Don't look them in the eyes.

He loaded the gun.

The target raised his hands.

"Please...I...I don't …."

Don't hear the fear in their voice.

Raised the rifle.

Don't think.

Clicked off the safety.

Don't feel.

Pulled the trigger.

Don't.


	4. Chapter 4

He gasped and jerked awake, heart racing.

_It wasn't real._

_Just breathe. _

In.

Out.

_It was just a dream._

In.

Out.

_Don't think about it._

In.

Out.

He sat up slowly.

Pulled his knees up to his chest.

In.

Out.

The bed frame creaked as he rocked back and forth.

He was forgetting something.

Something important.

He couldn't remember.

It was driving him insane.

He dug his knuckles into his forehead.

_Remember. Remember. Remember._

Was the dream what he was trying to remember?

Was it a memory?

_Yes._

_You killed him._

His heart skipped a beat.

The rocking got worse.

Back.

Forth.

Back.

_It wasn't me._

_Of course it was._

_No. _

_ killed him. Killed others like him._

_It wasn't me._

_Yes, it was. Stop lying. You know. I know. And they will know, too. _

_Who will?_

_Everyone._

_Please._

_Everyone will know._

Something was in his chest, compressing his lungs.

Squeezing his heart.

Suffocating him.

He had lost track of his breathing.

He was drowning in mid air.

He felt the heart in his chest race along unevenly.

Panicking.

The room closed in.

Trapped him in a glass cage of fear.

And then light washed the darkness away.

Someone had turned the lamp on.

Someone was there.

_They know._

He gritted his teeth.

Buried his face in his arms.

He heard his own voice.

A low, thin sound. A frightened whisper of a sound.

"It wasn't me."

It was quiet except for the sound of rocking.

He whimpered.

They knew he was lying.

He pulled at his hair.

"It wasn't me, I...I swear…"

The whole room was shrinking in.

Crushing him.

Killing him.

"Okay."

The word was soft.

"Can you hear me?"

He nodded, his head still wrapped in his arms.

The thing in in his chest fought harder.

He gasped for air.

_Liar._

_I'm not._

_Murder._

_No._

_Monster._

_Please._

He felt a strong hand on his shoulder.

"What do you need?"

He didn't know. He couldn't think.

"I can't…"

"You can't what?"

"Breath."

The hand dropped.

"Okay. I'm going to help you. But you need to listen, okay?"

"Okay."

"Inhale slowly."

He breathed in sharply, fighting the stabbing pain in his lungs.

"Hold it while I count. One. Two…"

He gasped out. It hurt too much.

"Again. Inhale. Hold it. One. Two. Three. Now let it out."

"It's hurting."

"I know. Again. In. One. Two. Three. Out."

The pattern repeated a few times.

"You're doing great. What else do you need?"

His throat hurt from trying to control his breathing.

"Something to drink."

"Okay. I'm going to stay here, though, until you're a little calmer. I'll ask one of my friends to get that for you, okay?"

"Okay."

He heard the door open.

"I know you're there, Petrov. Could you bring up a glass of something to drink, please?"

"Of course. See, I was just wondering…"

"I know. Please hurry back up."

"Okay."

He felt himself shaking.

But at least he could breath.

And his heart had started to remember how to work.

In a moment he heard footsteps in the hall.

"Here it is. I didn't know for sure what you wanted, so…"

"Thank you."

The hand was back on his shoulder.

"All right. Here's a drink. But I need you to sit at the edge of the bed, okay?"

He slowly unclenched his muscles and turned, stretching out his cramped legs and resting them on the floor.

"You're doing great. Do you think you can hold the cup?"

He didn't reply. But he did reach out his left arm, relying on it's mechanical stability to do the work for him.

The woman handed him the mug, making sure it was steady in his hand, watching him closely.

"There you go. Drink slowly, all right? You're looking better, but be careful."

He lifted the mug.

Took a sip.

It was milk.

He spit the liquid out, spraying the room with it.

Dropped the mug.

The woman's surprised eyes crossed as she watched a drop of milk slid down her nose.

He groaned.

"I'm sorry...I…"

He curled back up in ball.

She stood up, and lifted her hand to examine the drops of milk on her sleeve.

She looked back at him.

"Are you all right?"

He rubbed the back of his neck slowly.

"I'm...I'm okay now."

Which wasn't exactly true.

He was still shaking. His chest hurt.

And he felt very, very tired.

But the panic was gone now.

And that was good.

"Sorry...about the milk. I just...bad memories...''

She shrugged.

"It's all right. I should have told Petrov to bring up water. You could have been lactose intolerant or something."

It was quiet for a few minutes.

He tried to make sense of what had just happened, but his brain was too muddled to understand it. After a while he lost track of his thoughts, and a comfortable, familiar emptiness filled his mind.

He was startled enough to jerk away when the woman spoke again.

"I think you'll end up sleeping on the couch tonight. I'll have Petrov set you up down there. Is that alright with you?"

He nodded once.

"Sounds good. Petrov, are you at there still?"

The bulky man stepped into the room.

"Who, me? No, no. I am asleeping in my room. Right now. This very second."

"Right. Let me know when your grammar catches up with your sarcasm. Could you help him downstairs? There are pillows and blankets in the hall closet."

She turned back to him.

"I'll clean things up by tomorrow so you can get settled in."

Petrov raised an eyebrow.

"Tommorow? Don't give yourself a deadline. You never are keeping them."

She shook her head, glaring over her shoulder.

"Tommorow. Or soon. Whatever. You are just so helpful tonight, aren't you? "

Petrov grinned, then lumbered into the room and crouched in front of him.

His voice was surprisingly gentle when he spoke to him.

"We are needing to get going, okay? Before she starts talking to herself or something crazy."

"If I do talk to myself it's only because you are wearing off on me, old friend." She sighed and rolled her sleeves up. "I'll see how much of this milk I can get out of the carpet. Would you mind hanging out in the living room tonight? Just to keep him company?"

"Of course. We'll get going, then."

The older man held out his hand. James took it, and Petrov pulled him to his feet, wrapping a reassuring arm around his shoulders.

They reached the stairs, and Petrov called out a goodnight.

The woman didn't reply.

When he glanced back, she was pulling the mug out from under the bed.

And mumbling to herself.


End file.
